


Bergamot & Sulfur

by demonologistindenim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Gen, Tea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2020-06-27 18:01:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19796125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonologistindenim/pseuds/demonologistindenim
Summary: No one enjoys a good cuppa tea better than Crowley. Multiple one-shot drabbles of Crowley enjoying a cuppa tea and experiencing life as one of the boys, along with his hellhound Juliet, and other members of the extended Winchester family. Pure fluff, canon divergent.





	1. Earl Grey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThayerKerbasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/gifts).



> Bergamot and Sulphur takes place in an alternative reality that runs parallel to the One of the Boys verse. Though the essence of their worlds is similar, this reality was brewed more gently, and characters long lost share cups of tea and mend parts of themselves scorched by the canon. Come, enjoy a cuppa with a hellhound: a taste of bergamot with a whiff of sulphur.

Whenever being one of the boys allows for a moment of peace and quiet, Crowley makes himself a cup of tea. Days like today, when Dean and Sam are away on a case, and Castiel is occupied elsewhere, Crowley puts on the kettle, settles himself in the most comfortable chair in the library, and indulges in a little light reading. Most days, he occupies himself with translating and amending old tomes of lore, a tedious task Crowley assigned himself as a means of earning a place with the Winchesters. For these precious hours, however, there is only the waft of bergamot and orange ceylon. A small, warm spot all his own, in the midst of saving people and hunting things.

Crowley isn’t entirely alone, of course. With a heavy, contented sigh of the sort only dogs and hellhounds can offer, Juliet lowers herself down beside his chair. She gives a soft huff as Crowley reaches down and gently scratches behind an ear, dreamily wags her tail, basking in time alone with her favorite person. Crowley is eternally grateful for Juliet – her companionship, her loyalty, her love and patience with her master. She is slowly fading from his sight, visible now only when Crowley isn’t looking directly at her, a mere suggestion of soft fur and adoration out of the corner of his eye. As his demonic powers dwindle and humanity rises up from some buried, secret place inside him, the reformed demon will eventually lose sight of the hellhound entirely. But Crowley knows Juliet will always be there, a solid comfort, a devoted confidant, and a contented partner in the soothing ritual of enjoying a cuppa. Just the two of them.

Before picking up his book, Crowley takes a few sips of tea, and gazes around the library. The bunker is a quiet, cavernous place when there isn’t some world-ending scenario occurring, just the heavy breathing of old books and bricks, the occasional ping of old pipes, the shush of dust motes skittering across the massive mahogany table in the center of the room. Crowley would never consider the bunker to be a peaceful place – not with all the memories capable of crowding into the space – but it’s certainly something equally important and comforting. Its home.

Crowley sits enthroned in his favorite spot, listening to the sounds of the bunker, feeling the warmth of Juliet’s weight pressed against his side. Here and now, Crowley is content, and grateful, and at peace. He is patiently waiting for his family to return safely home. And in the meantime, enjoying a rather splendid cup of tea.


	2. Yerba Mate

The late summer rainstorm turns the churchyard into a damp and gloomy mire of mud, the night condensing on itself into shrouds of mist that lay heavy across the cemetery. Green moss blushes across the stones, ivy rakes itself through the rusting iron fencing. Water weaves it way through the branches of the old oak tree under which Crowley hunkers, and down the collar of his jacket. Mild irritation threatens to muddle his good intentions. He reaches for his thermos, pours himself a steaming cup of yerba mate, gulps down the murky, vegetal warmth. The tea tastes the way the air smells, of wet earth and fresh soil, and Crowley reminds himself why he’s here.

When it comes to saving people and hunting things, Crowley possesses what he likes to consider a broad interpretation of the Winchester family’s call to arms. It is a matter of self-established obligation as much as conscience. This case, in particular, strikes a nerve. Church grims are the butchered and bound souls of black dogs, damned to serve as spectral guardians of graveyards. They ward cemeteries against the demonic, the profane, and the unscrupulous, and often appear during stormy weather. And something – or more likely, someone – is doing away with them. Which does not sit well with Crowley.

So far, the only black dog discernable in the absence of moonlight, rivets of rain coursing through her soft coat, is Juliet. Through the damp weight of the world, Crowley can feel her beside him, undeterred by the weather, vigilant, ever committed to her separate, self-assigned and singular creed: her master’s safety and well-being. Without Juliet, he would surely be among those buried six feet under or long ago burned to ash in an accolade of flame upon a hunter’s pyre. Crowley has very little to requite such devotion. He is grateful for it, nonetheless. And strives to be worthy of it, to coerce himself and the world into being just a little bit better. The tea in his cup has grown cold now, as verdant and mucky as the churchyard and the indefinite night that resides beyond the soft crush of rain. He takes a long and resolute swallow, and together, Crowley and Juliet wait out the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Church grims are from English and Scandinavian folklore, and were likely what was being alluded to in the scene from King of the Damned, in which a hellhound guarded a grave that also contained the First Blade. This also happens to be the scene in which Juliet was introduced to both the Winchesters and the fandom.


	3. Wedding Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on canon-divergence: This fanfiction also diverges from the canon in that I write Rowena as Fergus MacLeod’s ex-wife, rather than mother. This is keeping with Mark Sheppard’s preference for the characters’ relationship, and in my opinion is a far more interesting dynamic than what the SPN writers settled on.

Crowley cautiously selects an afternoon in the crisp decay of summer, when the sun shines sluggishly down like heated honey, and there is the barest hint of autumn’s chill nestled in the shadows of the day. He chooses a convincingly cozy café in town, with a table for two in the crook of a corner window, the teapots and thick mugs hand-sculpted from pottery and painted in pleasant, earthen tones. And he leaves Juliet outside, obedient but disgruntled. However well-intentioned and appreciated, he cannot allow her loyal animosity to disparage or hinder this long-overdue reconciliation. She whimpers softly from the sidewalk.

For the tea, Crowley isn’t sure if he needs something bracing, or calming, or maybe sweet, to lessen the bitter aftertaste his ex-wife can still sometimes conjure. He settles for gently ironic – wedding tea, a light and refined white tea with hints of vanilla and lemon, with a scattering of pink rosebuds. Rather than taking the tea selection as a potential barb, Rowena smiles ruefully. When her hand inadvertently brushes his, in the passing of honey or milk or the like, it’s not an attempt at or allude to seduction. He instinctually jerks away, nonetheless.

Soft curls of steam rise up from the placid pools of pale tea nestled in the bowls of their hands. They watch the motes of dust between them catch gold in the amber light, then absorb shadow again and scuttle away across the well-scuffed floorboards. Theirs is a tangled history of disparate ambitions, ardent invulnerability, and the derelict devotion of half-formed hearts. Crowley takes comfort in more than just the buttered glow from his cup, in the stumbling flush of false starts, in Juliet’s soft, patient presence waiting outside in the mellow hush between seasons. Both he and Rowena are more human now than either of them have ever been before. A demon and a witch, learning to share in and partake of the warm pot of humanity, to be more generous with others and with each other and with themselves.

Here in this circle of hesitant amenity, they sit quietly conversing, occasionally smiling, wending their way through a thicket of painful memories towards a contented future of their better natures. When only dregs remain, Rowena daintily folds a rich, savory scone in a napkin. With cautious entreaty, she presses it into Crowley’s hands. For Juliet, she says. Crowley curls his fingers around the dense hearth-warmed weight of the biscuit, around what promises to be the first of many small kindnesses between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It would have been worth watching to see Crowley and Rowena’s relationship develop into a pragma affection, worn and well-loved, and set aside. To watch them learn to forgive each other as much as they were learning to forgive themselves. They might have been sources of wisdom, and temperance – with the occasional bout of passionate drama – in the expanding Winchester found family. The roles played by Mary and Alt!Bobby in the later seasons might have belonged to them, if the SPN writers had possessed more foresight. For more on the alternative history of Rowena as the wife of Fergus Macleod, take a peek at my Season 10 summary rewrite, Brother’s Keeper.


	4. Autumn Creme Roobios

The air is crisp and biting on this brittle day in the full flush of autumn, the front porches of Victorian homes lining this maple-dappled street laden with the harmless sort of ghouls and goblins and the demonic grins from sprightly carved golden gourds. The boys go door to door with their thrift store suits and their homemade badges, trick-or-treaters both too early and too old to perform this particular ritual. At the end of the street, next to a small park enclosed by cobweb-encrusted stone walls, Crowley waits by the Impala, sipping on autumn crème rooibos and soaking in the season. In the park, bright, bold flutters of chestnut, gold and saffron burst into the air as Juliet thunders through the carefully raked piles of leaves.

Bundled against the chill in his favorite flannel scarf, Crowley takes another sip of his tea and savors the amber warmth of the sweet brew. The tea is a blend of his own concoction – caramel rooibos sifted with chai-spiced black tea, enriched with vanilla cream and embellished with the lingering aroma of almond. It’s soothing to set aside his self-imposed responsibilities for a day and just enjoy simple pleasures, the richness of the world, without mulling over the weight born by the Winchester family. The patchwork pockets of honeyed sunlight and the cleansing cast of candlelight, the sharp bite of apple and robust mellowing of pumpkin, the weight of well-worn sweaters and the musty sweetness of leaves as they crunch underfoot. Autumn is invigorating, plentiful in its promises, and never fails to inspire in Crowley that hungering for humanity.

There is the sudden hearty heft of paws on his shoulders and brimstone breath in his face. Juliet nuzzles Crowley with ferocious affection, then laps at the dusting of cinnamon clinging to his beard. Crowley catches and crinkles leaves in her thick coat, cozier and more comforting than any cup of tea. Then there is a nimble tug, and his scarf slips off and dances away between invisible jaws. Juliet, Crowley chuckles, give that back. Juliet! He makes an attempt at grabbing the scarf. It growls playfully and skips mischievously into the park. Crowley stumbles after, misses again, then begins to give chase. Juliet dashes through the fallen leaves, Crowley following after, lurching after his scarf, laughing and shouting loud enough to raise the dead.

Neither of them notice when the boys arrive to lean against the wall and watch Crowley scramble after his scarf, smiles bright with ripened, impish glee. For just this moment, in the russet cascade of leaves and the gleam of an autumnal afternoon, Crowley and Juliet don’t cast the haunted shadows of a reformed demon and a hellhound. Just a man and his dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy October, everyone! Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading and enjoying Bergamot & Sulphur. There are still plenty of chapters to go, and I hope to get a new one out every two weeks. Chapters will now alternate between “Juliet & Crowley” chapters and “Juliet, Crowley & Friends” chapters. Thank you for reading, and be sure to check out more of my writing if you enjoy this version of Crowley.


	5. Blood Orange Tisane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder about canon-divergence: Bergamot and Sulphur takes place in an alternative reality that runs parallel to the canon and the One of the Boys verse. Though the essence of their worlds is similar, this reality was brewed more gently, and characters long lost or at odds share cups of tea and mend parts of themselves scorched by the canon.

The woods encircling the bunker have grown bare, the spindly limbs of bald cypress trees and gnarled, creaking clutches of bur oak grasp at the vapid blue of the sky. Each breath of the piercing cold air is slightly scented with the hint of pine, as the crackling needles yield underfoot. Crowley enjoys these walks, appreciates the hesitant stirring of small forest creatures, the muted tread of Juliet’s paws against the slumbering earth as her gentle stride breaks into a run. Claire joins the ‘hound in loping through the underbrush, the rare bark of her laughter rebounding off the naked tree trunks, her pale hair and dark attire grafting her into the woods until both she and Juliet are invisible. It is both a game and not a game, and Crowley imagines Juliet considers Claire to be a young ‘hound herself, eager and ready for the hunt. 

Jody falls in beside Crowley, the two of them a casual saunter of flannel-lined canvas and comfortable companionship, with joints and hearts too old to participate in the play of their pups. The world exhales its emptiness in a gathering brume along the trail as they traverse familiar ground: case files piled like layers of knob-veined leaves, abundant tidings from acquaintances trussed up with plump tales, the recounting of a recent hunters’ gathering. They share sips of a blood orange tisane to keep warm, a crimson brew of orange rind, apple peel and wind-withered cranberries. Jody’s hand lingers as Crowley passes the battered flask, deliberate and inquiring.

The scant cawing of distant crows echoes in the meager attendance of the woods. Crowley contemplates the golden cast and camber of Jody’s eyes, the smiles shared across tables burdened with feasts and small gatherings bursting with warm banter. The hard-earned edges of her sarcasm and soft creases of her compassion, her soul unadorned and admirable in its luster, weighted with a worth well beyond his own kernel of human kindness. Crowley contemplates what it would be like to knot his hand with Jody’s in weary thanksgiving. What it would be like to ask her out to dinner, or to bed, or attempt to open up what remains of a weathered, well-worn heart to her. Perhaps they are not too old for such things, perhaps they would not break from it, but rather mend. Perhaps love requires its own season of sheltered slumber.

The woods crackle and snap with the sudden return of Claire and Juliet, flushed from their merriment and games. The young hunter entwines her arm around Jody’s. The solid force of his hound against his leg and the whip of Juliet’s tail nearly topples Crowley to the ground. Jody reaches out a hand to steady him, smiling knowingly, the moment between them broken along with the quiet of the woods. Let’s head back, I suppose, Crowley says with a chuckle. Juliet eagerly leads the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was unfortunate that Crowley and Jody’s relationship in the canon was inaugurated with deception and ill-intent. Their personalities are such that I always imagined they would have gotten along quite well otherwise, either as friends or potential romantic partners. And if potential Crowley/Jody isn’t your thing, feel free to read it as semi-demon Crowley’s thoughts on the difficulties of attempting to be in any romantic relationship. The setting for this drabble was borrowed from the lovely little series, Hell on Earth, by ThayerKerbasy and Grey2510.


	6. Darjeeling & Scotch

The moon is a pale, portly thing, scuttled over by clouds. It twines through the barren branches, barely illuminating the winter woods, black and hungry, that stand silent sentinel at the edge of the crossroads. A sheath of muddled ice encrusts the hallowed ground. Crowley waits. He waits as the night darkens, as the ice groans in quiet terror underfoot. He waits as the dry and breathless cold seeps into his bones, into his heart. Juliet is a huddled mass amongst the trees, sharp and merciless.

There is absence, and then there is a demon. A shard of black cut out of the night. A black suit, black eyes. A consumptive, howling emptiness, where there should reside a soul. One of the last of his kind. An appointment made and kept. The demon smiles cordially, and waits for words. Crowley smiles – and continues to wait.

Juliet growls softly. The brittle moaning of ice under the demon’s soft-soled shoes as he turns at the unexpected sound. One step, two, and Crowley is behind him. The glint of an angel blade. A single, silent thrust between the demon’s ribs. He turns it, for good measure. For a gratifying, gut-wrenching moment, the crossroads is lit by a sickly sulphurous spark that crackles and snarls before snuffing out. The body drops. On soundless paws, Juliet pads across the ice to her master and friend, to the empty husk at his feet. Her teeth sink into muscle. She drags the body off into the absolute darkness of the winter woods.

His hands are shaking. From the inner recesses of his coat, Crowley pulls out a flask of Darjeeling and Scotch. Takes a long, hard pull. Enough to warm him. To break the harsh encasement of ice inside that the night had required. Enough to carry him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cold, dark depths of winter are here. It is easy to understand, living where I do, why previous generations told tales of monsters out in the dark, hiding in the woods, and curled up waiting in the desolate places inside us.
> 
> Darjeeling and Scotch is a common whiskey pairing. Down through the ages, Irish and Scots have mixed their Scotch and whiskeys with traditional, robust black teas, but other combinations include Darjeeling and Scotch, Darjeeling and Bourbon, Scotch and Earl Grey, and Scotch with Gunpowder Tea.


	7. Black Currant

The buttermilk scones arrive from the oven golden and flaky, and take their appointed place on the maplewood table next to a crock of rich Irish butter and a small jar of homemade blueberry jam. Crowley’s signature boozy french toast bubbles in the oven, smelling of salted caramel and buttered rum. Castiel seasons the crumble of crisping potatoes and mushrooms in the skillet, adds a sprinkle of thyme, reaches for the salt. Crowley passes it to him, tends to the pot of honey simmering on the stove, its resplendence blossoming with orange slices in bold, ripe hues of amber and fuchsia. Blackening wedges of robust tomatoes contently crowd a skillet beside crackling strips of bacon rashers. Waiting in patient attendance beyond this well-practiced waltz, Juliet breathes in the saporous scents and enjoys the familiar ritual of these quiet, early morning hours.

It begins with a pot of black currant tea, sweet and tart. As the others sleep, Castiel and Crowley craft sumptuous lemon soufflés dusted with powdered sugar, or swirled cinnamon buns bursting with plump raisins and toasted pecans, roasted pepita and pumpkin butter granola over rocket and fresh figs, jalapeno cornbread doused in runny eggs and sour cream; or ethereal crepes curling around clusters of raspberries and clumps of homemade whipped cream. Crowley and Castiel enjoy the steady rhythm of preparation, the articulate and unspoken communication between them, the unexpected but appreciated comradery of another being hungering for all the aromas and flavors conjured by their increasing humanity.

Castiel dusts paprika on small plates of well-poached eggs resting on beds of mesclun greens topped with avocado slices and a raspberry vinaigrette. The other residents of the bunker begin to awaken, drowsily wandering in one by one. The pungent allure of freshly ground coffee fills the morning air. Nestled between the legs of her family under the table, Juliet enjoys her morning platter of fried pig meats and a hearty wedge of harvest pumpkin, slow roasted in ground cardamom and clementines. The world outside their door is for once peaceful and still, and the dirty dishes can wait. Crowley steeps another pot of black currant tea for Castiel and himself, and sits down to breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The preparation and sharing of a meal is a sublime form of gift giving, in which we all participate in the sustaining of life. It is sensual, and pleasing, and communal. It is an act of love. This chapter is a small snippet for a much longer planned piece, Food Porn for Morons, which I hope one day to write. As one of the boys, I like to imagine Crowley would have made this sort of offering of love and support to the Winchesters and their extended family. 
> 
> I also love the idea of Crowley and Castiel’s potential friendship: these two ontological opposites discovering just how much they have in common as they both stumble towards humanity together, if from opposite directions. Crowley and Cas would have shared the experience of their supernatural qualities, defenses and abilities slipping away, and discovering the joys and sorrows of humanity. Who better to understand that than each other? As they set aside their personas of suave demon and starched angel to reveal weathered, self-doubting, hopeful, human individuals, I like to think they would have continued to ruffle each other’s feathers and – like all good friends – been patient and forgiving with each other, eternally bound together as brethren in the Winchester family.


	8. Oolong

The chrome of the 1967 Chevy Impala gleams. Every inch of the black exterior is polished to a shine, not a scratch anywhere, and the engine purrs like Dean himself has been under the hood. The AV 2000 radio plays all the right stations, and when the heat comes on, a handful of legos acquired at the local thrift store rattle around inside. Crowley climbs out of the driver’s seat after adding a few finishing touches, listens to the squeak of the door as it shuts. He makes a few more adjustments until he’s sure he’s got it just right. It would be something small that gives the game away.

Crowley wipes his hands on a rag, pours himself a fragrant cup of oolong, and leans back against the workbench to admire his handiwork.

He really should be elsewhere. Reclining in a luxuriously padded leather chair in the conference room of an international banking corporation, the long mahogany table before him bracketed by a hungry host of slick suited businessmen. All their strained, eager smiles. An exchange of assets as soul contracts are renegotiated or terminated entirely. The funds necessary for the establishment of a new American Men of Letters secured. Never mind that, with Hell closed, these financial executives’ souls are no longer Crowley’s to sell.

It took weeks to arrange this meeting. It is a cornerstone in Crowley’s plans, crucial to the future of the Winchesters and the hunter community. Even potential relinquishment from eternal damnation – deal of a literal lifetime – will not keep those pompous douchbags waiting on him for long. And yet, the thought of donning that perfectly tailored, starched shirt and silk jacket, that suave smile and smarmy self-assurance, holds absolutely no appeal compared to this little project.

In a day or two, the boys – Crowley still marvels that now comprises Dean, Sam, Cas and himself – will set out on a little trip to visit Eileen. About a quarter of a mile down the road, the spellwork delicately etched into the frame of the Impala doppelganger will begin to take effect. It will happen incrementally at first. A side mirror, a hub cap. Then the back bumper will suddenly drop off. Then the front bumper, the door on Cas’ side of the back seat. The seat belts will snap loose, the pedals will fall through the floor, the roof will wrench itself free. The wheel Dean will be clutching so tightly will snap off the dash. As the car begins to swerve and slow, it will crumble entirely, until they are left standing on the street, the stretch of road behind them littered with unsalvageable scrap.

Crowley takes a sip of tea, and reflects on how, whether its contracts or pranks, attending to the details is what ensures success. There will be hell to pay, of course. But it will be worth it, to see the boys’ faces as they watch what they think is their precious car irreparably break apart under their feet.

It’s what they deserve, after all. For putting holy water ice cubes in his scotch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the Winchester prank war. Terrible to be a part of, very fun to imagine.
> 
> I learned a lot about the Impala while researching for this chapter, including that the squeaking sound made by the passenger and driver’s doors were individually chosen and replicated in each episode. American Men of Letters is used here really more as a succinct placeholder for the name of the organization Crowley will create. In One of the Boys, I hope to go into this a bit more, and want to keep the name of the organization as a big reveal. Thanks to Thayer and CrowleyLovesYou on Tumblr for the idea for this chapter.
> 
> (I meant to add at the end of the last chapter that Juliet’s fried pig meats are a direct reference to Thayer’s Hell on Earth series. And there is no way that chef Crowley does not possess his own mini blow torch, for crème brulee and the like. And there is no way that doesn’t also lead to trouble. I don’t know how or by what means – I just know it does.)


	9. Victorian London Fog

The light cast through the leaded windows of the library brushes across the stalwart spins of books standing expectant sentry along their narrow, rickety shelves. In a cloistered corner between contemporary ethnographies and pop culture studies, Crowley considers his options while sipping on a cup of finely brewed Victorian London Fog tea. He smiles approvingly as Kevin deftly avoids falling into his trap. Their chess pieces parry across the maple and walnut board, the young demonologist proving himself more than capable of keeping up with the rigorous tutelage of his mentor and friend.

When the Winchesters, Castiel and Crowley set out all those years ago to shut the Gates of Hell together, the ivy league-bound prodigy had suddenly found himself thrust into the world of the supernatural. Since then, Kevin has adapted. He’s developed resilience, found conviction, harnessed his powers and potential. He keeps a small spellbook in his back pocket, an angel blade in his backpack, rolls his eyes at Dean’s mothering, laughs at Cas’ consternation over Lord of the Rings. He out-snarks Claire, geeks out with Charlie, and challenges Crowley in every way possible. And he is an absolute natural at demonology.

His studies are so much more than reading dusty tomes and cobbling together half-concocted lore. When Kevin isn’t attending university, the two of them are scouring private archives, dissecting corpses, clambering through partially collapsed catacombs, covered head to toe in graveyard dirt, working a case. In the quieter hours, Crowley sets Kevin to learning linguistics and dead languages, alternative histories and a multitude of mythologies. At tables scattered with bottles and books and diagrams, he shares with Kevin herbology and spellcraft, explains non-human biology, chemistry, philosophies. Across chess boards and during sci-fi movie marathons they discuss psychology and ethics, sociology and ecology, anthropology and metaphysical mathematics, and how the supernatural is an integral part of the world’s collective ontology.

Sitting across from the lad and watching his own pieces being defeated one by one, his traps anticipated, his every move blocked, his king now endangered, Crowley cannot be more proud of Kevin. Of course, he can’t make it too easy on him. Juliet, sitting at Kevin’s elbow and watching the game intently, gives Crowley a knowing look.

He moves a piece. Checkmate, Kev.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Kevin’s relationship in the canon was complex and fascinating, and it wasn’t limited to one of them as the tormentor and the other as the victim. From the beginning, Crowley took a patient and encouraging attitude with Kevin, clearly seeing in him a great deal of both power and potential. He pressed Kevin, not just to see what it would take to make him break, but also because he seemed to think the lad was capable of handling far more than Kevin himself believed he could. He warned Kevin against the Winchesters, offered unsolicited advice. And when he encouraged Kevin to whale on him in the dungeon, that was as much about Crowley wanting to be punished as it was him attempting to strengthen Kevin, to harden him against whatever might come next. Under very different circumstances, they might very well have been friends, sharing the same bright intelligence and eager curiosity. 
> 
> Very excited for the next chapter, just saying.


	10. Sencha

At times like this, it isn’t easy to remain calm or focused. In a sincere attempt, Crowley closes his eyes and contemplates holding a steaming cup of sencha, delicate leaves curled at the bottom in graceful whorls. He imagines the soothing verdant aroma wafting around him in ethereal wisps, imparting tranquility. Crowley thinks about the light, clean taste of the tea, the viridescent gleam, the weight of the cup in his hands. Gold cracks like precious lacework tracing the edges, a tangible equivalent to the broken vessel that is his soul. It’s think about this, or allow the anxious thoughts slipping like shrill notes along the cords of his vibrating consciousness to reach a crescendo. Perhaps with enough patience and concentration, Crowley can conjure the cup into his clasped hands, conjure possibilities out of sheer will and thin air.

The angels had come out of the spruce and pine woodwork, catching him unawares after working a case in a Japanese bathhouse on the outskirts of Anchorage. Winged dicks, as Dean would say, the lot of them. Completely adverse to adaption, self-reinvention, the world of humans and hunters being reshaped without their consultation, and by a demon no less. Crowley had fought them, and lost. There one moment, running towards the limp, black form laying on the ground. Then a firm hand on his shoulder, an angel blade against his back, the familiar flaps of wings, and gone. What a dubious honor, being the first demon allowed entrance into Heaven, albeit as a hostage. Still, Crowley can withstand heavenly imprisonment easily enough.

What he can’t withstand is worrying about Juliet. Crowley imagines her running, a dark lightning bolt flinging herself through the night, towards the Winchesters. Faster than the flight of shadows, faster than any car beast could ever carry her. He can imagine her waiting, whining, as soft curls of steam from the spa illuminate her outline with captured moonlight. What Crowley can’t stand is imagining Juliet might be lying where he last saw her. When a flick of angelic grace had lifted her aloft and thrown her through the air. Her yelp. The thud of her body against the ground, before the angels whisked him away. Crowley can’t stand the thought of her laying there, dead.

Breathing as evenly as possible, Crowley focuses on the tense, rhythmic tapping of his thumbs against the conjured cup of tea. He focuses on that, and absolutely nothing else. Not on his surroundings, or the angels outside his prison cell. Not on the inscribed cuffs encircling his wrists or the way his semi-demonic essence writhes in imposed antithesis. Not the endless cavalcade of terrible, stoic uncertainties, each one less endurable than the last. Crowley focuses instead on that cup of tea. The sweet, clean taste of sencha and a singular possibility, as if through sheer concentration he can will it into being.

The boys will come. Juliet will be with them. There is nothing to be done but wait, and practice a little patience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patience, as we all know, isn’t one of Crowley’s virtues. (And yes, by this point, he does have some of those.)
> 
> Kintsugi is a beautiful art form practiced in Japan, using gold or silver to repair cracked ceramics. The broken thing becomes a thing of beauty, its value increased because of – not despite – its damage. I’ve often thought of resilience and redemption this way.
> 
> Juliet’s car beasts are a direct reference (once again) to Thayer’s & grey2510's Hell on Earth series.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you would like more of Crowley as part of the Winchester family, please check out my other work. Comments and kudos always greatly appreciated!


End file.
